


extraordinary semblance

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9251900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: “Special Class,” they say, after pulling him into a secluded corridor. “There’s something wrong with it.”He looks at them. He says nothing. Finally, someone stammers.“It’s sick.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> feeling ill today so i wrote out a pwp i’ve been thinking about for a while. i hope you’re having a good day :”)

“Special Class,” they say, after pulling him into a secluded corridor. “There’s something wrong with it.”

He looks at them. He says nothing. Finally, someone stammers.

“It’s sick.”

:::

He has a meeting soon. So, he asks that one of them send word of his absence, and that the other accompany him.

“Nothing was done to him,” they assure him, with some panic, as Arima approaches the cell. “It was improving. It was eating as usual. All the protocol has been followed. I-if anything,” the person says, rashly, “maybe it was the books,” and Arima gazes at them until they stare at the ground.

“Go,” he says, and they flee, but not before unlocking the door.

:::

He was expecting more blood. Wheezing, maybe. A runny nose. Ghoul or human or neither, a cold is a semi-common occurrence, and sometimes even a welcome one. A fair excuse to take to bed a blanket and a towel on your forehead and maybe even a couple books to hold up quietly against the sunlight and garden breezes.

But the books in the cell are scattered, like they’ve been each picked up and thrown against the wall. The small mattress is offset. The bed sheet on it is a knotted heap, large enough that it must contain him.

And the smell.

“ _She said she’s sick,_ ” Furuta said, once, his voice small. “ _She locked the door on her room and she won’t let me in. She’s all alone in there but…do you…do you think she’ll be okay?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Arima told him. “ _It happens, with the ones that aren’t like us. This won’t last. It’s nothing to concern yourself with._ ”

“ _I want to concern myself with it,_ ” Furuta muttered, after a pause.

Arima closes the cell door, securely, and approaches the bed.

“Are you well?” he asks. When no answer comes, he works his hand into the bed sheets. He yanks and unravels. Soon enough, a figure rustles out of it, limply, loosely, like a creature unspooled too early from a cocoon.

Arima still doesn’t quite know what to call him. “240” is most accurate, if impersonal, and misaligned with the eventual goal. _Centipede_ certainly no longer seems appropriate for the entity Arima saw after 240 opened his eyes and quietly asked for a wet cloth to wipe the caked blood from the folds of his eyelids. Still, the image of an insect somewhat matches him presently, gasping, curling up, emitting a small noise that he clearly can’t help, and then another immediately after, this one filled with shame at the first one.

And the smell.

It was a testament to Rize’s breeding, that she smelled like this, every so often. The fragrance followed her like a shadow, billowed from behind her. Arima reaches beneath the hem of 240’s shirt, and the slight shift of it, the exposure of even more skin, almost makes him reel the same way Furuta did, rocking back and forth on his heels outside Rize’s closed window. Even so, Arima confirms it with fingertips alighting on 240’s lower back.

_Heat._

That barest contact makes 240 clutch the sheets. He curls, legs pinching even more tightly. He buries his face, and then an instant later looks up at Arima, and Arima can see it then, why the others would have misconstrued this as simple sickness. His fresh eyes are watery. His skin is flushed, from cheeks all the way past the collar of his shirt. He licks his lips, which leaves them even wetter than they were before. And his breathing is ragged, like he’s been running for hours.

And the smell.

Arima isn’t one to be moved like this, usually, at all. But suddenly he finds his mouth full of moisture, and when he swallows, he only tastes more of it. Images abruptly cross his mind — the nape of a neck, as soft as a peach, and just as faintly feathered — the crack of ill-used limbs parting as they haven’t in a long while — a sigh at his ear, hotter and wetter than any breeze.

They’re nothing more than impressions, but Arima hesitates. He adjusts his glasses as if to more properly see what’s before him, but instead his vision begins to furl at the edges. He sees only slowly unfurling limbs.

“Arima-san,” 240 says, and suddenly Arima is unsure if whether 240 has ever said it before, his name. If he has, it certainly was not like this. _Arima-san._ With desperation.

“It will be over soon,” Arima assures him. “It won’t last.”

“It’s been — a while already,” 240 replies. His voice broke, before revealing the true length. Days, Arima can imagine. Probably Arima was only called because now 240 looks at the absolute peak of his misery, his body trembling, his whole body sweating and shaking with every breath, his lips licking his mouth once more, his eyes going from Arima’s face to throat to chest and down to —

“It won’t last,” Arima repeats.

“How much longer?” he pleads. “I…I can’t…”

“You can,” Arima tells him. “Remain steadfast.”

“It’s like starving,” he says. His eyes are turning even redder, but not in the way a ghoul’s do. It’s a simple pink color, powerless. “I can’t…I can’t think about any other…I can’t...I...”

Days in here, alone. Arima can only imagine how the sight of him reaching toward the cell window would have only frightened or disgusted the passerby. The books that he once columned preciously beside him lie scattered like pinions, shed in their inability to free him, in their failure to provide their single simple utility of removing him from his body.

At loss, Arima doesn’t answer; he simply takes a breath. It’s a mistake, because his lungs fill, and his chest swells, with a coarse imagining of falling forward into the bed, of nosing and seeking that scent to its origin, and deeper. His vision once again blurs, in a way that isn’t like the usual. Reasons are starting to occur to him, to race around him, eagerly.

_He needs it._

_He’s in pain._

_Aren’t you tasked with caring for him?_

_So pitiful. He didn’t ask for any of it. Don’t you owe him something, on behalf of all the curses given to him, on behalf of all the good things you’ve taken away?_

_Doesn’t he deserve some peace?_

_He does,_ Arima thinks, carefully.

But he is the last person that could ever grant it.

“Arima-san,” 240 whispers. “Please.”

:::

One day, 240 will overtake him. It’s a fact. In his mind Arima can see the trajectory of it, the same way he can see the movements of an enemy, the same way he has carefully mapped out this entire plot. He will spend a handful of years carefully pruning, and then he will turn himself into an earth rich enough to raise the throne.

But somehow he had expected that until that last moment he would remain exactly as he’d always been. Dispensing nourishment as necessary, incapable of anything but the scythe. Now, unexpectedly, helplessly, he feels his grip soften.

He moves, for the edge of the bed sheet, to cover him up again, to hide him. In his desperation, 240 reads it differently, reacts to it as if Arima were obliging him, raises his knees and slightly parts them. Too late, Arima realizes that perhaps 240 had interpreted him correctly after all, and that Arima really had no intention to do anything else but set his hand carefully on the plane of 240’s fevered, quivering stomach.

Rather than resisting, 240 sighs. His body, so tightly bowed, starts to loosen, straighten, limbs fanning out like petals. His hand grabs Arima’s and moves it, curtly, downward, past the hem, to where the heat has been boiling him alive, to where he’s been unable to seek his own release. The simple curl of Arima’s hand makes him moan. The slow rhythm Arima puts to him makes him arch and burst his breath against his pale knuckles.

Arima swallows, again. He feels his head lighten, to swim with violent tenderness, and under ministration 240 is turning honest, mindless, wanton. He meets Arima’s line of sight and, rather than cringe, he leans in, hips matching pace and easing it faster. Filled with inspiration, Arima raises his other hand and feels 240 through his clothing, seeking an even warmer softness that 240 offers with legs parted even wider. He finds it, the small pucker of it pulsing against his fingertip, and as Arima continues to stroke he also caresses gently against those flutters and 240 turns speechless, and glimmers with sweat.

And the smell. It’s in every breath he takes now, and he doubts that he exhales any of it, that it goes anywhere except steeped into his own blood and bones. His sight sharpens on 240’s mouth, opening and closing in supplication he can no longer voice. He is coming undone, with inevitability, with writhing, as if his heat is as unbearable to release as it is to hold. The sheets tear under his gripping nails.

“ _Arima-san_ ,” he cries, and Arima is so busy, so fixated, that he has no hands or attention to dodge what’s next. 240 straightens, lunges, jams his mouth to Arima’s for one electric instant, and then moans against Arima’s neck as his whole body spasms and spills and overflows over Arima’s fingers.

240 is damp, all over — with himself — with sweat, with saliva slipping messily from the corner of his panting mouth, with abrupt tears that appear to have been wrung out of him by the sensation of his coiled muscles. Both of them look down, and 240’s next cry is filled with disbelief at the sight of himself still hard, barely wilted, if anything even more rose-red than before.

“It’s alright,” Arima tells him. His hand continues to move again, smoother now, easier now that it’s slick with come. 240’s eyes roll shut. He breathes, and the sheets rip further. He thrusts himself against Arima, as if seeking somehow to be even closer. His mouth opens, inviting. The echo of its taste is still on Arima’s tongue, foreign, as sharp as a thorn. The price of nearness. Another swallow, and he feels it sticker down his throat. It catches between his ribs, nestles, in some place there that had been waiting for it.

 _It won’t last,_ Arima thinks, and he realizes that he’s telling it now to himself. _It won’t last._

And yet, he finds himself leaning forward.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :)


End file.
